


kinda ménage à trois sometimes

by addandsubtract



Series: show us what you've got [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fraternity, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:03:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addandsubtract/pseuds/addandsubtract
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niall doesn’t regret last night’s decision to drink until he could no longer stand, even given his 10:30AM Spanish oral exam, but that’s only because he’s fluent and his prof learned sometime during the first month of school not to bother asking him to take his sunglasses off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kinda ménage à trois sometimes

**Author's Note:**

> this is more frat au! because I'm a sucker for boys being terrible and drinking? and also because it's been sitting on my hard drive for too long and I got sick of looking at it. anyway, you don't actually have to have read the first part to understand this bit, they're just meant to take place in the same general timeline.
> 
> also, any typos and other various weirdnesses are my fault alone. feel free to point any out!

1.

Niall doesn’t regret last night’s decision to drink until he could no longer stand, even given his 10:30AM Spanish oral exam, but that’s only because he’s fluent and his prof learned sometime during the first month of school not to bother asking him to take his sunglasses off.

He still passes, which is mostly what matters.

Harry’s waiting for him when he gets outside, hands dug deep into the pockets of his hoodie, beanie pulled down low over his ears, looking pasty and ridiculous. Harry forgets most of the time that he can’t honestly keep up with Niall, and it generally just fills Niall with a sense of accomplishment.

“You good for food or should I not mention how hungry I am?”

“Ugh,” Harry says, which isn’t an answer either way. Niall sticks his hand into the crook of Harry’s arm and pulls him in the direction of the dining hall. Gerber’s closest, which is great, because Niall has yet to run out of baby food jokes. Harry follows along, but he refuses to go as quickly as Niall wants him to.

“Mate, I’m starved, can’t we please – hey, was your sound engineering presentation this morning? Or is it tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, I think,” Harry says, a little hoarse, and tries to burrow down into his hoodie. It’s chilly outside, not the frigid cold they’re expecting come November and December, but enough that it would probably have been smarter for Harry to wear a coat of some kind. A scarf, maybe. Niall presses closer because he can, and also because if he’s going to slow to Harry’s snail’s pace, he’s going to get something out of it.

“So no drinking tonight, good to know.”

“I can do what I want,” Harry says, prim as fucking anything, and Niall snorts.

“Yeah, ‘course. Now can we please get to the pizza, I’m going to start cannibalizing, soon, and you’re closest.”

Harry rolls his eyes. They’re still walking arm in arm, but Niall doesn’t generally bother to look where he’s going when he can, instead, be looking at Harry’s wan hangover face.

“Just so long as you chew with your mouth closed, wanker,” Harry says, and pushes his face into the crook of Niall’s body. The rest of his words are muffled by Niall’s jacket. “Puking into the bin in public once was quite enough for me.”

 

2.

As sophomores, they don’t have much in the way of responsibility for the frat, except that Niall has commandeered a great portion of the party planning. That’s why this Halloween rager thing is hellacious. Or baller, maybe. He’s not sure. Niall’s been doing his best to pick up appropriate slang, but his focus is often split, so he’s probably only scoring a 50%. Harry’s got him beat, but that’s fine, because Liam’s only been getting more posh and English the longer he spends picking up after them. Not that he was posh to being with, but American expectations being what they are, Niall’s worried Liam’s going to become a caricature of all British people, just as an example. He can’t say he won’t find it hilarious, though, if it eventually happens.

That said, Niall’s dressed as a nun, drinking directly from a bottle of Jack Daniels, so it’s possible he doesn’t have a leg to stand on in the caricature department. As if he cares.

He finds Louis in the kitchen, mixing up a batch of something noxious that appears to contain both beer and Tabasco. Louis started out the night dressed as a jockey, but he’s lost his riding helmet and crop in the intervening hours. Niall doesn’t mind because his trousers are still doing great things for his bum. Niall can’t resist giving him a slap across one cheek as he walks to the first of the fridges. He always forgets which one is the beer fridge and which one has all the food in it. It probably says something about his priorities, honestly.

“Oi,” Louis says, faux-affronted, “are you getting fresh with me?”

“Only always,” Niall says. “Don’t fib, you wore those trousers specifically because you know how your bum looks in ‘em.”

“Of course. What other reason is there to wear trousers?”

Louis appears genuinely troubled, but only because he’s a halfway-decent actor, and Niall has to laugh.

“Cheeky,” Niall says, and, as he’s quite forgotten what he was looking for in the kitchen, he props himself up onto one of the counters, spreading his legs wide for balance. Nuns’ habits are not meant for general gymnastics. Just the act of spreading his legs means he has to hike up the habit some, exposing his extremely pale calves. He’s not wearing anything underneath other than his pants, really, not that he cares much how close he is to exposing said pants to Louis.

Louis looks down at his mixture, frowns, and then puts everything down on the counter, moving to stand between Niall’s spread thighs. He puts one hand on Niall’s thigh, maybe for balance, maybe not, and Niall looks down at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes?”

“How wasted are you right now?” Louis asks, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

Niall wiggles a hand in a half-hearted so-so motion. “Why? Are you asking if I’m pissed enough to get off with you in the kitchen? I thought you knew me better than that, mate.”

“Maybe,” Louis says, and his thumb is rubbing over the inside of Niall’s thigh. Louis isn’t tall enough for this not to be a little awkward, but Niall doesn’t really care, just sets the bottle of Jack Daniels down next to him with an audible clink, and curves a hand round the back of Louis’s head. He feels Louis push against his thigh, going up onto his tiptoes, and then they’re kissing, sloppy and drunk, tasting like the tang of alcohol. Louis makes a pleased noise, and Niall laughs against his mouth, happy and easy.

Eventually someone is going to want more beer or, god forbid, whatever foul concoction Louis was actually making, and they’re going to have to stop, but for now Niall’s willing to go with the flow.

 

3.

As Niall understands it, the point of Thanksgiving is to eat a lot and feel great about it. This is not something he has a problem with. None of the lads are going home, because 1. two extra days off isn’t enough to matter, and 2. none of them celebrate American holidays anyway, but they do all go to the Thanksgiving party that the university throws for the less fortunate. Niall brings all the extra cartons they have left around from ordering takeaway and fills them up with turkey and stuffing and cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes and whatever else he can get his hands on. He gives a couple to Harry and makes sure they have enough pumpkin pie to last until New Years, probably. The only prof who sees him is his orgo teacher, and he just gives Niall a thumbs up. Niall loves scientists.

They spend Saturday night sitting on the floor in the common room eating leftover Thanksgiving feast and drinking the champagne left in the beer fridge from their shebang the weekend before. It had been formal themed, or something, Niall’s not entirely sure. He hadn’t had a hand in that one.

“This was a great idea,” Zayn says, using a pair of chopsticks to nab another slice of turkey. They don’t own nearly as many actual forks as they do chopsticks. The logical result of ordering Chinese at least once a week. “We’ve got to stop underestimating your deviousness, Niall.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying forever,” Niall says, and pours himself another glass of champagne. He’s teetering on the edge of drunk, and he’s pleasantly full. Liam has long since given up and is lying on his back on the floor, groaning occasionally. Harry has an entire carton of pie in his hands, and Niall’s not sure if he bothered with any other portion of the meal. Louis is lying, sprawled, with his head in Harry’s lap.

“Worth it just for the pie,” Harry says, looking sleepy with pleasure and alcohol. Louis pushes his face into the crook of Harry’s knee to muffle his giggling.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever eat again,” Liam says, morose. “You’ve ruined me forever.”

“Don’t be like that,” Zayn says. “Have more champagne.”

“I’m supposed to sing tomorrow,” Liam says, as if uninterrupted, “and I’m still going to be lying on the floor unable to move. I need better friends.”

“Nah,” Niall says, feeling sort of smug despite himself. “We’re the best you’re going to get, mate.” He’d sort of like to be snuggling the way Louis and Harry are, maybe with them, but he doesn’t have the expectation, either. He kisses them sometimes but that’s generally separate from the cuddling he does or does not want.

Doesn’t change that he has the best mates around, though.

 

4.

Harry, it turns out, does not take well to illness. This isn’t exactly a huge surprise to anyone. He goes to his classes, but Friday afternoon he shuffles off to bed and sleeps for the next 18 hours. Niall checks in on him a couple of times, but he’s always got his quilt pulled up over his head, used tissues left in a pile on the floor.

Around noon on Saturday, Niall peeks his head in, and Harry’s actually got his eyes open. His nose is all red from the congestion, and he looks singularly pathetic. 

“Morning,” Niall says. “Can I get you anything?”

Harry squints over at him, mouth turned down at the corners, and when he speaks, his voice is wrecked. “Tea? Please?”

Niall hums in agreement, and wanders off to the kitchen. Being a frat with four British lads and one Irish lad means that they are probably more stocked on tea than anywhere else on campus. Nonetheless, Niall just puts the kettle on and pulls out some Twinings. He finds half a lemon in the fridge, and a mostly full bottle of honey in the cupboard – one of those ones that’s shaped like a bear. He doesn’t know if Harry wants either of these things in his tea, but according to telly that’s what one does for sick people, so he sticks a slice of lemon on the rim of Harry’s mug, and pours the water in after it boils. He takes the honey with him, plus a mug for himself, and wanders back up to Harry’s room.

When he pushes the door to Harry’s room the rest of the way open, Harry is reclining against his pillows, quilt still pulled up to his chin. He looks miserable. Niall holds out the tea for him and hands him the honey, and then sits cross-legged on the edge of his bed.

“You look pretty ragged, mate,” Niall says, blowing on his tea. Harry grunts, and upturns the honey over his mug. It looks like a ridiculous amount to Niall, but he doesn’t sweeten his tea, really. Harry’s not so bad as Liam about it, usually but maybe it’s because he’s sick. Then Harry squeezes the lemon slice and drops it into the mug, stirring with the spoon Niall stuck in with the tea bag. It’s the only clean one they have at the mo.

After he puts the honey on the floor and takes a few sips of his doctored tea, Harry slumps down into his pillows. “Ta,” he says, voice still gravelly, and Niall shrugs.

“I don’t mind. You’re certainly pathetic enough to warrant a bit of sympathy.”

Harry just makes a sad noise and takes another sip of tea. Now that he’s made his delivery, Niall is probably free to leave. He should really let Harry rest, but he’s comfortable where he is.

“Want me to go?” he asks, just in case, but Harry shakes his head.

They drink their tea in companionable silence, interrupted only by Harry’s wracking cough and the trumpeting when he blows his nose. Eventually, Harry puts his mug on the floor, empty, and snuggles back down into the covers. Niall is mostly done with his, and he knows an imminent nap when he sees one, so he makes to scoot to the edge of the bed and leave Harry to sleep.

“Stay,” Harry says, petulant as fucking anything, round, pale face and bird-nested hair peering out at him from underneath the quilt. Niall can’t help the questioning noise he makes, and Harry just flips down the quilt and adds, “Could go for a cuddle,” as if Niall was offering.

He contemplates for a moment, and then shrugs, putting his mug on the floor next to Harry’s and the bear-shaped bottle of honey, before sliding between the covers, pressing himself up against Harry’s back. Harry sighs, and goes sort of limp, wriggling just slightly to get comfortable. Niall drapes his hand over Harry’s stomach, and manages not to jump when Harry grabs his fingers, pressing his thumb against Niall’s palm and holding on.

“Thanks,” Harry says, already sleep-slurred and indistinct. Niall doesn’t say anything, just presses his nose to the back of Harry’s neck and closes his eyes.

 

5.

They have an entire month off for Christmas and New Years, which one the one hand is brilliant, and on the other means finals. Niall pulls three all-nighters in a row, camping out in the back of the library with his orgo text and his biochem lab book. His Spanish final is a joke, which is good, because no matter how great Niall’s orgo prof is, the exam is going to be mental.

Liam joins him the first two days, because Liam also does his homework, but he has sight singing and ear training and music theory and all of that needs to get done in the music building. Niall resigns himself to a lonely last-ditch effort to finish studying and also write the gen ed paper he was supposed to start on Monday.

It’s just after 12:30 when a hand waves in front of Niall’s face, surprising him. He looks up, and sees Louis leaning over him, Harry standing behind. He slides off his headphones, and smiles, sheepish.

“Sorry, mates, didn’t see you there,” he says, shrugging.

“Really?” Harry plops down next to him, wide lazy grin spreading across his face. “I never would have guessed.”

“Shut it.” Niall elbows Harry in the ribs, laughing when Harry recoils, scowling.

“We haven’t seen you in _days_ ,” Louis says. He folds himself up on Niall’s other side, knees pulled up to his chest. “Have you been eating? We’ve been worrying that you’ve wasted away.”

“Don’t talk to me about food,” Niall says. He’s got two pages of this paper left to write before half one tomorrow, and if Louis starts talking about food all he’s going to want is to go get chips from the 24-hour diner. “Don’t you two have work to be doing?”

“Yep,” Harry says. “Don’t care.”

“Speak for yourself, I’ve done mine,” Louis says. “This is why no one majors in whatever idiotic science you’re studying, Niall. Even _Liam_ is done, as of 8PM. Zayn’s been finished since Monday.”

“And mine’s all presentations,” Harry adds. “I could do ‘em in my sleep.”

Louis leans in, hooking his chin on Niall’s shoulder, humming low in Niall’s ear. Harry wraps an arm around his waist, fingers pushing underneath Niall’s shirt just enough to touch skin.

“Mate, you have _got_ to get out of the library,” Louis says. “I’ll give you half an hour to finish that paper, then we’re getting high and going for greasy diner food. Got it?”

“Got it,” Niall says. Like he was going to say no.

 

6.

The rager their first weekend of spring term is maybe the loudest party Niall has ever been to. Two hours in Niall is on the edge of too drunk and the bass is starting to make his head hurt. He’s glad to be back – he missed the lads, really – but he hasn’t seen any of them in twenty minutes, and he’s not sure he’s having fun anymore. He’s feeling more claustrophobic than he has in a while.

He pushes through the crowd, in between chattering people, around a table of beer pong, past the kitchen and into the front hallway. The door is open, letting in the cold winter air, and it feels like bliss after the hot press of too many bodies. He’s just wearing a jumper and trousers and socks, but no one is outside right now so he sits on the front step and waits to get cold.

He tucks his fingers into the sleeves of his jumper. There’s no snow on the ground, just the mud left after a melt, and patches of wet grass shining in the light from the windows. He breathes out and watches frost white curl like cigarette smoke around his head.

He’s not sure how long he’s been outside when Harry sits next to him. Harry’s face is flushed pink and his fringe is pushed off of his forehead in clumps. Niall just looks at him for a moment, too drunk to be at all collected.

“This party is nuts,” Harry says, smile lopsided. He touches a warm palm to Naill’s cheek. “Fuck, you’re freezing. Come back inside, yeah? Louis was looking for you.”

Niall waves a hand toward the door, halfhearted. “It’s all a little – you know. Much.”

“Ah,” Harry says, nodding. “Well, I’m sure Louis will locate us eventually.” He’s only wearing a t-shirt, and he’s already shivering a little, but he’s not leaving. Niall appreciates it more than he really knows how to articulate, so he leans into Harry’s hand on his cheek, and wraps his fingers around Harry’s other wrist, right where he can feel the pulse beating.

Harry watches him for a long moment, eyes half-lidded, obviously drunk, and then he leans in and presses his mouth to Niall’s. His lips are warm, the kiss soft and sloppy and easy. Harry’s fingers slide up into Niall’s hair, and this is so simple, kissing Harry on the front porch of their house, the air just a touch away from bitterly cold, but heat everywhere their skin touches.

Niall’s heart is beating slow and steady, and there is no rush.

 

7.

Niall wakes up in Louis and Harry’s room. It’s Saturday and he doesn’t have anything to be doing. He certainly doesn’t have to be awake at 9:37, but even with Louis and Harry’s beds pushed together, there isn’t quite enough space for three, and it’s too hot. He’s not wearing anything except his pants, but he’s still sweating.

Harry’s face down on the mattress next to him, covers kicked all the way onto the floor. Niall can see each of his vertebrae pushing against the skin of his back. Louis is curled up on his side, facing Niall, his hands tucked underneath his chin. Niall is lying on the crack in the beds, but it’s not so uncomfortable that he wants to move.

He doesn’t realize that he’s essentially staring at Louis’s face until Louis opens his eyes. He smiles. Niall smiles back.

“See something you like?” Louis’s voice is a whisper. He still manages to be somewhat suggestive. Niall holds in a laugh.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“I know,” Louis says, “but you like it.”

Niall isn’t going to protest that. He’s actually not hungover for once, despite that they’d played beer pong for four hours the night before. After the last game, Harry had pulled him out of Zayn’s victory hug and up the stairs. Niall wasn’t going to say no, not when Louis sauntered in after them, closing the door behind him and leaning against it.

Louis is still looking at Niall, but it’s more intent, now, than smug or seductive. “You should just stay,” he says. Something about the tone makes Niall blink.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and then wonders if Louis means right now or more globally. In either case, he’s not lying.

“Mmhm,” Louis says, cheeky smile flicking back into place. “That’s what I thought.”


End file.
